


A Thousand Times Before

by NarrowBridge



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:33:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NarrowBridge/pseuds/NarrowBridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was an original piece that I have adjusted to fit this ship.  Rated for sex. Free-form prose.<br/>"The smell of drenched wool and vanilla floods the car as she slides in. She shuts the door. It's like she knows him, like they've done this a thousand times before."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Times Before

**Author's Note:**

> Could be Gold with any woman in the show, but in my head it's Lacey/Belle. Feel free to take your pick, however. I don't use any names.  
> Also, I do not own Once Upon a Time or the lines in italics. If I did, I would be wealthy and a timeless poet.

It's raining the first time he sees her. Her black eyeliner is smudged, running in tiny rivulets down her pale cheeks. Her bottom lip quivers. She might be crying. Or cold.

Her thin arms, covered by the sleeves of a sweater that is more hole than fabric, wrap around her chest. She shudders. 

Cold, then.

She's just standing there, alone on the sidewalk. Staring.

_What life is this if, full of care,  
We have no time to stand and stare... ___

__

He doesn't know why he does it. But he sidles his expensive black Cadillac beside her. His gloved hand unlocks the passenger door. She approaches, biting a thumbnail. Her pants are too tight; he can see her sinewy muscles contract with every step.

Without a word, she pulls the door open. The smell of drenched wool and vanilla floods the car as she slides in. She shuts the door. It's like she knows him, like they've done this a thousand times before.

Her shaking fingers turn up the heat. Wisps of chestnut hair cling to her forehead and temples.

He shifts the gear to drive. She doesn't tell him where to go, and he doesn't ask. Neither seems surprised when they turn a corner and pull into the paved driveway of a laughably pink Victorian.

_Will you walk into my parlor, said the Spider to the Fly... ___

They enter the house through the backdoor. Her plump lips frown. She thinks he's ashamed. 

She's right; he doesn't want her to see him limp up the front steps. The hinges wail when the door opens. She turns on a light.

"I like your home." She almost smiles, her tired eyes taking in his clutter.

"It's a house," he replies stiffly, and the shadow-smile vanishes. He turns off the light.

She sits on his couch while he turns on the fireplace. It's gas-powered.

She frowns and he's more annoyed than he should be.

"It's quick, convenient," he defends.

"It's fake," she mumbles.

"What isn't?"

Her hands lift the sweater over her head. It falls to the floor with a wet slap. He doesn't know if she is answering him or if this is what she'd been planning to do all along.

She's bare underneath, nipples taut. 

He wonders if he's been expecting this. Then all thinking stops when she unzips her pants.

She's bare underneath those, too.

_I think I made you up inside my head... ___

Two pairs of hands remove his clothes. They fall beside hers in a paradox of fabric. 

Fully naked, they simply look. An eternity passes and he pulls her atop him on the couch.

She's not wet enough and they both wince as she slides onto him.  
But it's better after one, two, three rocks of her slender hips.

His fingers trace her shoulders, her back, her breasts, her ass. He can feel her nails on his arms and the heat of her cunt around his prick.  
The fire is fake and the town is fake and time is fake, but she is real, real, real.

She rises and falls while he obediently follows. Their faces are hot and moist because they are breathing hard and neither wants to look away.

He doesn't know if she is a demon come to plague him or an angel come to save him.

"What are you?" 

She pauses their thrusts, ice blue eyes staring at him like he's asked her the most obvious question.

"Broken."

They move to the floor. His chest covers her back like a funeral shroud. He doesn't know why, but he tells her she's safe.  
She comes with a whimper.

_This is the way the world ends... ___

Dawn is hours off when he wakes again. She is lying beside him, still asleep. An errant curl hangs across her face and he wants to tuck it behind her ear.

He doesn't.

His suit feels coarse and cruel against his skin, an exoskeleton with a five hundred dollar price tag.

She's still sleeping when he's finished dressing. Her back moves with each breath and he watches for a while. There are two dimples just above her ass that he traces with the gold handle of his cane.

He puts a Franklin on the table. He doesn't know what else he's supposed to do.

The floorboards do not creak under his weight as he leaves. He wishes they would.

_Tread softly because you tread on my dreams... ___

The sun rises while he drives to the pawnshop.

oOo

It's snowing the first time he sees her. Her lips are chapped, blood mixing with red paint. She's wearing a black winter coat that might have belonged to a twelve-year-old.

He doesn't know why he does it. But he sidles his expensive black Cadillac beside her. His gloved hand unlocks the passenger door. She approaches, fidgeting with a handbag. Her sequins skirt is short and her legs look impossibly long in torn tights.

Without a word, she pulls the door open. The smell of aerosol hairspray and vanilla floods the car as she slides in. She shuts the door. It's like she knows him, like they've done this a thousand times before.

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please review. Even one-worded responses are better than indefinable silence. And take some cool points if you understand the literary allusions.


End file.
